Cole Hargrove, 58, retired wildlife biologist, only showed up to the Madison County Fair because his next door neighbor had bullied him into entering a jar of his late wife’s blackberry jam in the canned goods contest. He’d planned to drop it off, grab a fried apple pie, and hightail it back to his cabin before anyone he recognized could corner him into small talk about how “he’s been holding up” or the latest rumor about the new county extension agent. He hated small talk, hated the way the entire town treated him like a wounded bird ever since Ellen died six years prior.
The line for the pie stand moved slow, the air thick with the smell of fried dough, cotton candy, and pine drifting down from the surrounding mountains. He shifted his weight from one work boot to the other, staring at the crumpled fair schedule in his hand, when a group of kids chasing a runaway cotton candy cone darted around his legs. He turned too fast to avoid knocking one over, his elbow catching the plastic cup of sweet tea in the hand of the woman standing next to him. It sloshed over the rim, soaking the front of his faded Carhartt jacket and the knee of her work jeans.
He started to apologize, already bracing for the sharp rebuke he expected, but she laughed instead, a low, warm sound that cut through the noise of the nearby tilt-a-whirl. “Don’t worry about it, I’ve spilled worse on these jeans this week,” she said, wiping at the sticky fabric with the back of her hand. Cole noticed the smudge of pine sap on her wrist, the bear paw sticker peeling off the corner of the laptop case slung over her shoulder, the way the late afternoon sun gilded the streaks of auburn in her brown hair. This was the new extension agent, he realized, the one everyone had been chattering about for the last three months. Her name was Mara, 49, divorced, moved here from Atlanta after quitting a corporate desk job to work with local landowners on wildlife conservation.
He grabbed a handful of napkins from the stack on the pie stand counter and handed them to her, their fingers brushing when she took them. Her palm was calloused, rough from working outdoors, not soft like the women who kept showing up at his cabin with baked goods. “I’m Cole,” he said, surprising himself. He never introduced himself to anyone these days. She told him her name, just like he’d already known, and leaned in a little closer to hear him over the announcement blaring from the fair PA system about the pig race starting in ten minutes. She was so close he could smell the lavender lip balm she was wearing, the faint scent of cedar from her jacket.
He should have left then, should have grabbed his pie and driven home, but he didn’t. She asked him about the jam he’d dropped off, and he told her it was Ellen’s recipe, the one she’d perfected over 25 years of canning every summer. He expected that awkward, pitying look everyone got when he mentioned his wife, but she just nodded, asked if he’d added the extra splash of lemon juice that cut the sweetness of the blackberries. He blinked, told her he had, that Ellen always said that was the secret. For the next 20 minutes they talked, standing so close their shoulders brushed every time someone walked past them in the crowd. She told him she’d been trying to track the local black bear population for a new conservation program, but all the trail maps she had were 15 years out of date. He told her he’d spent 30 years tracking bears for US Fish and Wildlife, that he knew every trail and every usual den spot within 20 miles of the fairgrounds.
He fought the urge to pull away when she leaned in even further, her eyes lighting up. “You’re kidding,” she said, her hand brushing his arm when she gestured to the mountains behind them. “I’ve been begging everyone around here to introduce me to someone who knows those woods. Everyone keeps saying the guy who’d know is a recluse who never leaves his cabin.” He laughed, a real laugh, the first he’d had in months. He felt guilty, for a second, like he was doing something wrong, like he was betraying Ellen by enjoying talking to this woman, by noticing how the crinkles around her eyes deepened when she smiled, by the way his skin tingled where her hand had brushed his arm. But the guilt didn’t stick, not the way it usually did.
She tilted her head toward the dirt path leading up to the overlook above the fairgrounds. “Wanna walk up there? The sunset’s supposed to be insane tonight, and I’d love to pick your brain about those bear trails if you’ve got the time.” He almost said no, almost made an excuse about needing to get home to feed his hound dog, but he nodded instead. They walked up the path together, the sound of the fair fading behind them, crickets chirping in the underbrush next to the trail. When they reached the overlook, they sat on the weathered split rail fence, their legs dangling over the edge, watching the sky turn pink and orange over the valley below.
She told him about her ex husband, who’d hated that she’d rather spend weekends hiking than going to country club dinners, who’d told her she was wasting her degree by working outdoors. He told her about Ellen, how she’d died six years prior, how he’d moved to the cabin to be closer to the mountains they’d loved together, how he’d thought he’d never want to talk to anyone new again. She didn’t say she was sorry, didn’t give him that pitying look, just nodded, and reached over to brush a pine needle off the shoulder of his jacket, her fingers lingering on the fabric for a beat longer than necessary.
They sat there until the sun dipped below the mountains, the string lights of the fair flickering to life below them, the first fireflies blinking in the trees at the bottom of the hill. She asked him if he’d be willing to come out with her next Saturday to survey some of the trails, to help her mark new bear den sites. He said yes immediately, no hesitation, no excuses. When they walked back down to the fairgrounds, he bought her a fried apple pie, just like he’d planned to buy for himself. She took a bite, got a crumb of crust stuck on her chin, and he brushed it off with his thumb, neither of them pulling away when his skin brushed hers.
He walked her to her beat up pickup truck, and she handed him a slip of paper with her phone number scrawled on it, told him to text her what time he wanted to leave next Saturday. He tucked the paper into the inner pocket of his jacket, right next to the photo of Ellen he kept there, and watched her drive away before he walked to his own truck. He didn’t feel guilty, not anymore. He knew Ellen would have told him he was being an idiot for hiding away for six years. He got in his truck, turned the key, and the radio cut on to the old Johnny Cash station he and Ellen used to listen to on road trips. He tucked the paper receipt for the two fried apple pies into his jacket pocket, already counting down the days until Saturday.
